


king of everything (and oh, my tongue is a weapon)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, F/M, Hydra Grant Ward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4774799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant is, in general, very good at hurting people. Jemma doesn’t know why she keeps forgetting that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	king of everything (and oh, my tongue is a weapon)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Jemma! I am celebrating by...making you cry. Oops. Sorry?
> 
> For the anonymous prompt "How about one of your OCs and Jemma and "things you said when i was crying"? please and thank you" on tumblr. It was supposed to be a drabble, but it got...a little out of hand. This takes place in the same verse as my [you can love it](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3595836/chapters/10662791) drabble, but you shouldn't need to read that to understand this.
> 
> Title from Halsey's _Young God_. (Why no, I'm not sick of this album yet, why do you ask?) Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma manages to keep her feet right up to the moment that Grant slams out of the room.

She’s proud of herself for it; she can’t stop her voice from shaking, can’t hold back her tears, but she stays standing—stays right where she is—until he’s gone. Then, as though the sound of the door hitting the wall cuts all of her strings, her knees give out, and she’s on the floor.

She’s still crying. Sobbing, really: awful, heaving things that will leave her with a horrid headache, she’s sure. But her tears are nothing to the unbearable combination of sensations in her chest, the burn of hot shame and the sharp, freezing hurt.

She feels…small. Small and raw, like Grant’s flayed the very flesh from her bones.

“Ma’am?”

Oh, lovely. Just what this moment needs: a witness.

She forgot Markham. He was in the living room when the fight started, and it seems he’s come to investigate now that it’s over. He’s crouching in front of her, eyes solemn and concerned.

“I’m fine,” she tells him—not at all convincingly, most likely, as she has to choke it out around the lump in her throat. “It was just a little row. I’m being silly.”

“Didn’t sound little,” he says, and for a man who never gives much away his voice is surprisingly gentle. “I don’t think you’re being silly.”

“I am,” she says. She swipes uselessly at her face; she’s still crying, so there’s really no point, but it seems the thing to do. “Grant only—only said a few things. It’s ridiculous to break down over a few words.”

A few very well-aimed words.

He’s always been good at it, Grant has, at exploiting every weakness he sees. He has a talent for it, for poking at the holes in someone’s defenses, digging in and finding exactly the right buttons—the right insecurities, the right regrets, the right fears—to prod. He wields words just as skillfully as he wields weapons.

Grant is, in general, very good at hurting people. She doesn’t know why she keeps forgetting that.

But he doesn’t usually hurt _her_. He’s aimed his temper at her before, true enough, just as she’s aimed hers at him once or twice, but it’s never been like this. He _meant_ to wound her, _meant_ to frighten her and make her cry, and that’s something entirely new.

“ _Was_ it just words?” Markham asks, face carefully blank. “Are you injured, ma’am?”

Part of her is shocked by the question—offended by it, even, because how _dare_ he? How dare he suggest Grant would ever raise his hand to her?

But it’s a small part, buried under her tears and her heart and her scraped-raw lungs.

“No,” she says. Her wrist throbs, a little, where Grant grabbed it to drag her into the bedroom at the beginning of their row, but it’s nothing serious. She’s very familiar with bruises—though usually she gains them in much more pleasant ways—and that’s all this is. “Just words.”

Markham doesn’t really move, but she has the impression that he’s relaxed a bit. Something in the set of his shoulders, perhaps.

“Good,” he says, and then hesitates.

She’s _still_ crying, though fortunately not sobbing. Markham has done this much for her, at least, distracted her enough from her misery to lessen the physical expression of it.

It’s obvious he doesn’t know what _else_ to do.

He’s a very reassuring sort of man, Markham, and very decisive. He’s not at all the sort to panic when faced with a crying woman. If she were anyone else, she’s certain he would have hugged her by now.

But she’s _not_ anyone else. She’s Grant’s girlfriend and Markham, of all people, knows exactly what that means.

None of Grant’s men touch her. Ever. They don’t brush shoulders with her in the corridors, don’t pat her on the back, don’t even offer their hands when they’re first introduced. The women can get away with a little more—a friendly nudge here, a linked arm there—but even they don’t dare take it too far.

Grant is the only person who hugs her any longer. It’s more than a little depressing.

After a long, uncomfortable moment, Markham sighs, stands…and then heads for the door. Jemma’s heart sinks. She knew he was at a loss, but she wasn’t expecting him to just give up and _leave_.

Stung by the abandonment, she doesn’t watch him go; instead, she hides her face in her knees and tries to fight back a stronger wave of tears.

Which is why it’s such a shock to find an arm wrapping around her shoulders and pulling her into a warm but unfamiliar body. Still, she doesn’t let the surprise freeze her; she uncurls herself at once in favor of turning into Markham’s embrace, greedily seeking the comfort of human contact.

“Please don’t tell the boss about this,” he says, voice heavy with resignation, even as he rubs a soothing hand over her back. “Don’t wanna lose my head.”

“I won’t,” she promises, and clings to him.

She can feel his discomfort in the embrace. It’s funny; in a way, it reminds her of hugging Fitz. Markham’s body is more like Grant’s, of course, solid and well-muscled and nicely formed, but the tension in him, the hesitance, is so much like Fitz—Fitz at the Academy, when their friendship was new and uncertain and he was never quite sure how to react to her exuberant hugs—that she could cry (more).

But of course, it’s only natural that she should be thinking of Fitz right now. He’s the reason—indirectly—for this whole situation.

Three weeks ago, one of Grant’s strike teams captured Fitz on a mission. He’s been a thorn in Grant’s side, apparently (something for which Jemma cannot help but be proud, even though they’re supposed to be enemies these days), and Grant planned to kill him—painfully, slowly, _horribly_.

She couldn’t allow it, of course, but she learnt her lesson about _pleading_ with Grant months ago. So she didn’t plead.

She _demanded_. In point of fact, she _threatened_. When Grant, in his amused, condescending way, reminded her that there wasn’t a damned thing she could do to stop him killing Fitz, she told him—plainly and honestly—that if he harmed a single hair on Fitz’s head, she would leave him.

As a tactic, it worked. But it infuriated Grant something awful, and he’s spent the last three weeks fuming over it, none too subtly building up to a proper outburst. The row was sparked by something entirely unrelated, but the explosives were already there, just waiting for the right catalyst to set them off.

So she’s been expecting it for weeks, and she knew it would be bad. She just didn’t think it would be _this_ bad.

Thinking of it—and of Fitz—brings on a fresh wave of tears, and she buries her face in Markham’s shoulder as she shakes with them. He hugs her close, murmuring soothing nothings, and she wonders just how much of the fight he caught. Grant was shouting, for a bit, so he must’ve heard that, but how far did the rest of it—the words he addressed to her in that low, venomous voice—carry?

“It’s okay,” Markham is saying. “You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

He’s a brave man, Markham. He has to be—half of his job involves reining in Grant’s wilder impulses, convincing him not to let his temper outweigh his common sense—but this? Not only touching, but _hugging_ her?

He’s risking quite a lot for the sake of offering her comfort, and that thought is enough to slow her tears. Not _stop_ them, exactly, but it’s enough of an improvement that she’s able to let go of him, to stop clinging and lean back.

He releases her at once—eagerly, one might say, and who could blame him?—and shifts slightly away, putting a more respectable distance between them.

“Thank you, Markham,” she says.

He simply nods, an acknowledgement, though not an acceptance, of her thanks. “Are you feeling better?”

Not really, but at least she’s no longer in danger of crying herself sick.

“Yes,” she says. “Thank you.” She takes a deep breath, ignoring the way it shakes, and pushes herself to her feet. “I think what I need is a nice cup of tea—and then perhaps a lie-down.”

It’s so very British of her, she knows, but tea has always had a calming effect on her. She thinks it will help steady her a bit, help fill a little of the awful hole in her stomach.

More importantly, it will give poor Markham an excuse to leave.

He’s standing too, now, and he gives her a searching look. He’s heard the implied dismissal, and he must be relieved by it, but not a hint of it shows on his face.

“You want me to send someone up?” he asks. “Aldridge, Lepley? Evie?”

All women—better choices than any of Grant’s men, but still, she thinks, far too risky with Grant in such a mood. If he comes back as angry as he left…

“No,” she says. “Thank you, but I’d rather some time to myself, I think.”

He nods again, accepting this at face value. Or perhaps not; it’s difficult to tell, with him. Either way, he’s obviously not inclined to argue, which means it’s time for him to leave.

In aid of sparing them an awkward goodbye, she motions over her shoulder to the en suite.

“I’m going to wash up a bit,” she says. “You can see yourself out?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he confirms, and, that settled, all but flees.

Jemma still feels horrid and miserable and raw, like part of her has been torn to shreds by her row with Grant. But Markham risked death—and undoubtedly a slow and painful one, had Grant caught them mid-embrace—to comfort her.

And for that, she feels much less alone.

\---

Surprisingly, washing her face does help a bit. So does making a cup of tea; it’s an old ritual, soothing in its familiarity, and going through the motions takes a little of the tension out of Jemma’s spine. By the time she’s finished, she’s stopped crying entirely, and she washes her face again as her tea steeps. The cool water is heavenly on her flushed skin, and she feels more put-together with her face free of tears.

Once the tea is made, of course, there’s the drinking of it, and for that, she curls herself into the corner of the couch and turns on the television. She doesn't really _want_ to watch anything, so she flips through the channels until she finds an action film—something mindless, and loud enough to drown out her thoughts (though it does nothing for the headache her crying jag left her with).

It’s also loud enough to drown out the sound of the lift; she doesn’t realize Grant has returned until he enters her field of vision.

“Hey,” he says. Or at least, she thinks that’s what he says; she can’t hear him over the television, but it certainly _looks_ like that’s the word his mouth forms.

She doesn’t know if she’s ready to speak to him again, but it appears she hasn’t much choice. So she sets her tea aside, draws her knees up, and offers a half-hearted, “hello,” in return.

Grant looks…she doesn’t know what he looks. Usually she can read him quite well, but right now his expression is closed and his posture inconclusive.

He stares at her for a long moment, searching her face for—for what? For an indication of how long she continued to cry after he left? The evidence is there; though she washed the tear tracks away, her eyes are still red and irritated. There’s no hiding how much of today she’s spent crying over him.

But perhaps that’s wishful thinking, to assume that he cares about her tears. As she ponders it, he hits the power button on the television, plunging the living room into a silence that sounds very, very loud.

“You’re still here,” he says.

Was he hoping she would leave? Or perhaps _afraid_ she would? It’s impossible to tell.

“I wasn’t sure whether the lift would work for me,” she says, hugging her knees to her chest. “I suppose I didn’t want to find out for certain.”

His jaw tightens, and she wonders if he, like herself, is remembering the threats he made, his frightening words about his ability to keep her— _trap_ her—here, whether she liked it or not.

She hopes he is.

Perhaps it’s petty of her, but she hopes he never forgets them, that they haunt him for years to come. She’s positive they’ll be haunting her, after all, and it would be nice not to be alone in that.

But maybe they won’t haunt him at all. Maybe he’s reacting not to the reference to his threats, but to the implication that she _would_ have left if she weren’t afraid to discover she couldn’t.

He’s still just standing by the television, _looking_ at her. She doesn’t know what to think.

The silence stretches on.

“How’s your wrist?” he asks eventually.

She pauses before answering to turn the words over in her mind, examining his tone. He doesn’t sound worried or even guilty—if he at all regrets his behavior, she can’t tell by his voice.

“It’s fine,” she says. “Just bruised.”

“Does it hurt?”

Does he want an honest answer? She’s not certain, but he’s getting one regardless.

“Not terribly,” she says, “but yes. It does.”

Finally, she gets a reaction. Grant exhales slowly; his eyes slip closed for a moment, and when they open again, they’re dark with what she tentatively identifies as remorse.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and crosses the living room to kneel before her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She presses further back into the couch as he reaches for her, and he pauses, hand hovering between them. Then he lets it fall and sits back on his heels, and if she weren’t in the midst of mentally replaying every moment of their fight, she’s certain the look on his face would cause her heart to clench.

“Yes, you did,” she quietly disagrees.

He scrubs a hand over his mouth, and she notes that his knuckles are in the process of reddening. She hopes he bruised them on a punching bag, rather than an innocent bystander, but she’s not about to hold her breath.

“I did.” His voice is heavy. “You’re right. But I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to hurt you physically.”

“You shouldn’t have wanted to hurt me at all,” she says, hugging her knees a little more tightly. “You’re not meant to be a monster to _me_.”

“Jemma—”

She’s fairly certain he intends to placate her, and for whatever reason, she can’t bear the thought of letting him. There’s still a tight knot of freezing hurt in her, and she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to forgive him for inflicting it.

“What would you do?” she interrupts. Grant’s brow furrows. “If anyone else said even half of what you did to me, what would you do to them?”

She doesn’t bother to wait for an answer; the look on his face tells her that her point has been made. If anyone else spoke to her the way he did earlier, he’d tear them to pieces, and they both know it.

“You’d never allow anyone else to treat me that way,” she says. “So why did you?”

Her first question sparked shame; this one sparks anger. His jaw clenches tight.

“You know why,” he says lowly.

“Because of Fitz?” she asks, with a huff of incredulous laughter. “Because I didn’t want you to _kill_ my best friend?”

Anger grows suddenly into fury; in a heartbeat, he’s up on his knees, leaning into her space. One hand lands on the arm of the couch and the other on the cushion beside her, effectively trapping her in her corner.

“Because you chose him over me,” Grant hisses, and that—that is just _absurd_.

“I chose _you_ ,” she snaps. “I chose you over _everything_ , including Fitz.” Her morals, her principles, her common sense—her bloody _conscience_ , for God’s sake. “As you yourself so recently reminded me.”

The reference to their fight—to the downright cruel words he tossed at her, about knowing damn well who she was getting into bed with—makes him falter, but only for a moment.

“You said you’d leave me,” he snaps.

“I said I would leave if you hurt him,” she says, “and you didn’t. So _I_ didn’t.”

“But you would have.”

“Yes.”

The answer does nothing for his temper—not that she really expected it to.

“You would’ve left me because of him,” he reiterates. “Which is the same fucking thing as choosing him over me, and you know it.”

“There is a _difference_ between saving my best friend’s life and choosing him over you,” she retorts, utterly frustrated. “I wouldn’t have left you for any other reason!”

Far from placating him, the words seem to anger him further.

“Wouldn’t have?” he asks, face darkening. “Past tense? So now you _will_?”

He leans further into her, and she shrinks as far back against the couch as she can, heart racing. Grant’s hand clenches into a fist on the cushion next to her.

“Stop doing that,” he grits out. “Stop fucking _cowering_ like you’ve got something to be afraid of.”

For a heartbeat, Jemma blinks at him, positive she’s misheard. But the words refuse to rearrange themselves into something different in her mind, and disbelief turns to anger of her own.

How _dare_ he.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” she accuses. “This is the second time today you’ve physically intimidated me—what was your intention, if not to frighten me?”

He doesn’t back down at all. “You’ve never been afraid before.”

It’s true, and for a moment her mind stumbles over it. He’s loomed over her plenty of times, and she’s made something of a habit of facing down his temper. She willingly puts herself between him and his subordinates when he’s in a rage on a regular basis.

( _Don’t shoot the messenger_ is pretty much the opposite of HYDRA’s policy, but with her interference, bad news-related casualties are down nearly thirty percent. She's very proud of that.)

They’ve been in similar positions dozens, if not hundreds, of times, and she’s never been frightened. So why is she frightened now?

As if in answer, her wrist throbs, and it brings the fight back to mind—Grant’s behavior, the awful things he said to her, the way he _looked_ at her—

“You’ve never dragged me across a room and threatened to hold me prisoner before,” she murmurs, anger giving way to a kind of wounded exhaustion. “I’ve seen you angry. I’ve never seen you want to hurt me.”

It seems she’s hit upon the right words; they puncture Grant’s anger quite effectively. He deflates, sitting back on his heels with a heavy sigh and scrubbing a hand over his hair.

“I’ve never wanted to hurt you before,” he says, “and I still don’t. I just…” He lifts his hands in a kind of shrug and then lets them fall to his knees. “I just can’t lose you. I won’t.”

“And you thought hurting me would keep me from leaving?” she asks, choosing to ignore the tone behind the _won’t_. One issue at a time.

“I don’t know,” he says, with a rueful little smile. “I’m not in control with you the way I am everything else. I don’t have a plan or a strategy. I just…react.”

Something in her heart unlocks a bit at his words. Grant _always_ has a play; he’s made a living of being twelve steps ahead of everyone, and the idea that it might not be like that with her—that he would _allow_ it not to be like that with her…

It doesn’t erase what happened today, and it doesn’t do much to heal the emotional wounds he inflicted earlier. But it makes her a little more inclined to forgive him for them.

“Well,” she says. “For the record, physical intimidation and verbal assault are not the best methods of persuasion when it comes to a relationship.”

“Noted,” he says quietly, and then, “Can I see your wrist?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she holds it out, and he cradles it gently as he inspects the damage. It’s not _bad_ —honestly, she's gotten worse during sex—but it is visibly in the process of bruising. And that the bruises were inflicted in anger makes them several magnitudes worse, she feels.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he looks sincere enough as he presses a soft kiss to her bruised skin. “I lost control. I forgot to watch my grip.”

“That's not an excuse.”

“No,” he agrees, “it's not. Just an explanation. I want you to know it wasn't on purpose.”

It's an acceptable—and understandable—distinction. She nods.

“And our row?” she asks. “How do you explain that?”

Grant sighs and releases her wrist. “I can't.”

“You can’t?” she echoes.

“No,” he says, “I can't. I lost my temper and I took it out on you—horribly. There's no justification for that.” He shrugs, looking tired and sad in a way she's never seen him. “All I can say is I'm sorry.”

It's the only right answer, really. She'll accept that he might forget the disparity in their respective strength and thereby accidentally bruise her, but there was nothing accidental about his verbal assault on her. His unqualified apology, on top of the fact that he's not trying to talk his way out of the blame, eases a little of the hurt. Not a lot, but it's _something_.

It's not settled, precisely, but she thinks they've covered as much of that as they're going to manage tonight.

Which means they've reached the final issue—and also, as it happens, the stickiest.

“So,” she says. She’s still feeling a little cornered, so she shifts to sit against the arm of the couch instead, tucking her feet up under her.

“So?” Grant asks.

“So,” she repeats. “About your threat to hold me against my will.”

“Yeah.” He smiles a little, and the sudden, mocking edge to his apologetic expression is enough to put a lump in Jemma’s throat. “About that. I wasn't kidding.”

He says it so casually that for a moment she honestly can’t speak at all. That wasn’t a threat, this time; it was a _fact_.

“No?” she asks, once she’s recovered. “So if I decide to leave you, you’ll stop me? Lock down the lift, put your men on alert, keep me prisoner in our home?”

“ _Are_ you gonna leave me?” he asks lightly.

“Just answer the question,” she orders, as evenly as she’s able—which, admittedly, is not very.

There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as Grant shifts back up onto his knees and cups her cheek. His other hand cards through her hair, stroking it back, away from her face.

“I’ve told you,” he says, very quietly, “you belong to me. I’m not letting you go.”

Her blood goes cold.

He _has_ told her that—repeatedly. It’s never bothered her, though it probably should have. But after a lifetime of dating fellow scientists, men who forgot her just as easily as she forgot them when there were discoveries to be made and results to be explored, it was so lovely to find someone who _wanted_ her—who wouldn’t put her aside at the first distraction. And a man like Grant, at that? A man who’s _known_ for caring for nothing and no one?

From the very beginning, there was something almost seductive about it—about being _claimed_.

It’s never occurred to her to wonder what will happen if she ever tires of it.

(Some genius she is.)

His hands are warm on her face, but they do nothing for the chill that’s come over her.

“And—” Jemma swallows, then tries again. “And if I decide I’m not interested in being owned any longer?”

Grant smiles, but there’s something dark in his eyes. “I have faith in my ability to change your mind.”

He’s not suggesting…?

Her horror must be obvious, because he leans in and presses a warm kiss to her forehead.

“I would _never_ brainwash you,” he promises. “Don’t wanna scramble that genius brain, do we?” He kisses her forehead again, then releases her face and sits back on his heels. “No, baby. All of my persuasion will be strictly verbal, I promise.” He pauses, smirks. “Well, maybe sexual, too.”

As a tactic, it would probably be highly effective. Even now, having been all but threatened with imprisonment, his smirk is enough to send a curl of heat through her, chasing away the ice in her veins. She doesn’t imagine she’ll ever be immune, even if the day ever _does_ come that she wants to leave him.

And she _doesn’t_ want to leave him today. Even after all of this—after their fight, after his threats, after this confirmation of them—she doesn’t want to leave. She loves him, and this is her home. _He’s_ her home.

Even if he is a monster.

“Now,” he says, standing. “It’s been a long day. We can finish this conversation some other time, don’t you think?”

Jemma thinks she’s had enough of this topic. It can only get worse from here; perhaps she should simply take the apologies she’s already gotten and leave the rest of it for another day. Still, what he's asking isn't precisely fair.

“It’s not the worst idea,” she admits, "but really? Just like that? You expect me to simply put it aside, pretend today never happened?"

Grant shakes his head. "Not exactly."

He offers her his hand, and she hesitantly accepts it, lets him pull her to her feet and into his arms.

“I did you a lot of wrong today, baby,” he murmurs, dropping a kiss to her hair as one hand cradles her head against his shoulder. His other arm is tight around her waist, and while it should probably frighten her, given the conversation they’ve just finished, it’s only thrilling. “Let me make it right.”

“And how do you intend to do that?” she asks, tipping her head back to meet his eyes.

He bends his head for a kiss, sweet enough to make her throat tight, and the fingers he trails up her spine are so gentle she barely feels them through her shirt.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” he says, once the kiss ends. “Any and every way you want it. And you’re gonna come so hard—and so much—that by the time I’m through, the only thing in your head will be how much I love you.”

As far as romantic declarations go, it’s…well, it’s not very. But she can’t deny the effect it has on her.

“That’s quite a steep promise,” she warns, as soon as she regains her breath.

Grant smiles, slow and intent, and tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I can keep it.”

Nothing’s been settled. She’s still stinging from the barbs he threw at her earlier, and his now-confirmed threats are unquestionably terrifying.

But she knew what she was getting into when she chose him, when she abandoned her morals in favor of loving an agent of HYDRA—and again, when she stayed by his side after he took over as head. He’s never denied being a monster; she supposes she only has herself to blame that she never anticipated he might turn his monstrous behavior in her direction.

In the end, it’s very simple: she loves him, no matter what. Perhaps that will change someday, and on that day she imagines she’ll be very sorry indeed, but in the here and now, she loves him utterly.

So, ignoring the tiny, terrified voice in the back of her mind and the persistent hollow in her lungs, she follows him into the bedroom and lets him keep his promise.


End file.
